


Confessional

by yvie



Category: All for One - Takarazuka Revue
Genre: Aramis's homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 16:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17646164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yvie/pseuds/yvie
Summary: In a chapel where the priest only absolves women, Father Aramis finds himself listening to D'Artagnan's professions of love for the king, and maybe he realizes a thing or two about himself as well.





	Confessional

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on the Takarazuka musical named "All For One," but instead of the king being a girl in secret, the king is a boy. The twin switch never happened in this fic, so Georges is the king in this one, but basically everything else is the same - the king loves ballet, hates swords. 
> 
> This is my first attempt writing a somewhat historical story, so I know next to nothing about French history or the musketeers, but All For One ignored history entirely as well. Forgive me for any inaccuracies, as well. With all that in mind, please enjoy!

Aramis sits quietly in the seat of his confessional box, having closed any more sessions for the day. It is getting late, and he is getting tired. He has concluded early on that listening to someone express their desire for reconciliation with a tired mind does not quite give the best kind of absolution that they need or want to hear. So, Aramis decides to retire for the day. He pats the dust off his cassock, ready to just about leave when he suddenly hears a pair of boots shuffling towards him.

“Aramis,” the voice whispers, “I’ve come to confess.”

Having noticed how deep the voice was, Aramis can only conclude that it was the voice of a male. Well, Aramis had no time for men.

“This confessional only absolves women,” Aramis says, deadpan, not wanting to entertain him any longer.

To his surprise, the rude visitor pushes the partition from between them to reveal himself. The priest’s frown quickly turned into a smile. It was his old friend! The aforementioned friend still has not changed in the few months that they haven’t seen each other because of the disbandment of the musketeers. Still the same bright and cheery eyes, and for some reason, he was also wearing the blue musketeer uniform (that so many ladies fancy.)

Aramis holds his arms out, in surprise. “D’Artagnan!” He scales the man up and down. D’Artagnan has his hands on his hips, grinning widely. Aramis points at him. “Don’t tell me that you have finally fallen in love?”

“But I have!” D’Artagnan interjects, almost immediately. He slumps down on the seat close to him.

Aramis feels his heart sink, but he cannot pinpoint the reason why. “And who is the lucky lady…?”

“The king!”  

“A… man…?” Aramis says, slowly.

His hands are on the partition, squeezing them as if they were his crutch. Immediately, his mind starts to yell at D’Artagnan - that loving a man is sinful, it is not _natural!_ This was not his area. He tries to keep his calm, but instead it seems as if he was panicking with how fast he moved.

“I apologize, I’m not in expert in that sort of thing.” He pulls on the sliding wood as he tries to reject D’Artagnan, but the other man simply stops him by putting his hands on top of his.

“Aramis,” D’Artagnan struggles to keep a hold of the partition, “you are my dearest friend.”

“I do not want to be involved in your sinful liaisons, D’Artagnan,” Aramis tells him, trying to get the partition closed.

“I need your help. Is that not what we do? All for one, and one for all?”

Aramis thins his lips. He stops struggling. “The musketeers have already disbanded.”

“I know,” he takes Aramis’s hands, “but our brotherhood has not.”

“Of all the people you could tell this to, D’Artagnan, it had to be me? A _priest?_ ” Aramis feels a tugging in his heart.

“Aramis, we are brothers, are we not?”

The priest touches the cross that hung on his chest. He sighs, silently asking the Lord for forgiveness and strength. He pushes the partition back, so he and D’Artagnan had nothing in between them anymore. He eyes D’Artagnan from head to toe - ever as debonair, ever as heroic. Any woman would fall in love with this man, why did it have to be the _king_ of all people?

“Yes, we are.” Aramis finally answers, after what seemed like a long, lingering silence.

“I have no one I can confide about this,” D’Artagnan explains, still squeezing Aramis’s hands, “Athos and Porthos are busy with their things and they are too far away. Meanwhile, you are close by.”

He is busy as well, Aramis thinks to himself. He has a lot of women to absolve, after all. Meanwhile, D’Artagnan is off flirting with the king and indulging in pleasures that he dares not name. Even if he prides himself in experiencing those pleasures with women. (Of course, no one has to know those “pleasures” that he speaks of are only half-true.) With men it is different, however! That’s where he draws the line.

But… D’Artagnan is his friend. His dearest, best friend. Aramis has to admit that he has a soft spot for D’Artagnan, especially when he is looking at him with eyes that beg.

“Indeed… so what do you want me to do?”

D’Artagnan looks as if he is about to leap for joy. Aramis nearly takes a step back out of reflex. Their hands are finally unclasped.

“I just… need someone to talk to is all,” D’Artagnan says, “you do not have to do anything.”

“So I will just sit here while you wax loving poetry about your lover, the king?”

“In short, yes.”

Aramis sighs, unable to say no. It isn’t a hard thing to do, listening. All he has to do is sit and wait for the story to be over, yes? It should not be so hard, and yet he wonders why his chest feels so tight.

They stand there in an uncomfortable silence for a while, not knowing what else to add to the conversation. D’Artagnan had his hands in his pocket, tilting his head towards the different corners of the chapel. Aramis clears his throat, to cut through the tension.

“Is that all?” He asks, his voice small and strained.

“Yes!” D’Artagnan chirps up, cheery.

“Good,” Aramis says with a nod, maybe two, “because I will soon close up the confessional.”

D’Artagnan nods as well. He starts to walk towards the exit when he suddenly stops, and turns toward him.

“I apologize if this is too much to ask of you, Aramis.”

With that, Aramis attempts a smile, to ease his friend. “We are brothers, are we not?” He echoes.

“Thank you, brother,” D’Artagnan smiles, then he strides to the exit again before Aramis gives him another reminder that he will come only when the confessional is closed and no woman is in sight. D’Artagnan agrees and says goodbye for the night. He leaves before Aramis could say goodbye as well.

Aramis stands along the doorway, dumbfounded. The news that came to him takes a while to fully absorb. D’Artagnan… his best friend… is in love with a king, a man. And D’Artagnan came to _him_ , a _priest_ , gush about his forbidden love. Aramis cannot understand at all. He makes his way to his quarters to rest for the night, so he can at least clear his mind of D’Artagnan.

Morning comes and another long queue of women come to confess to the handsome Father Aramis. They confess about secret affairs, secret funds, and secret engagements. Things that Aramis has heard plenty of times before that he knows exactly how to respond to those kinds of confessions. His responses are almost rehearsed even. He wonders for a moment if these women are sinning for the _purpose_ of confessing to him.

It is finally evening and the last batch of women have lined up to be absolved by God, under the Father Aramis’s guidance. At the edge of the door, he sees the shadow of a man lurking behind the bushes. Aramis tries not to look at him, so as not to draw attention, but it is hard to ignore the visage of such a man as D’Artagnan. He must keep himself hidden, Aramis thinks, for every woman in this room knows of the incomparable hero, D’Artagnan. Thankfully, he keeps himself hidden in the shadows.  

The last of the women leaves, possibly a noble, judging from her clothes, after having confessed that she has bribed her way out of prison twice. Aramis suggests that she should possess an honest heart, and to donate to the church if she wishes to clear herself of the dirty money she has.

Aramis then lights a few candles, so as to keep the chapel from being too dark while waiting for his friend. He readies himself for the news that the hidden shadow from earlier would bring. From the window leaps an excited D’Artagnan, who this time was not wearing his musketeer garb, but this time he is clad in all red. His hair is pulled back into a half-ponytail, and his eyes were glittering.

“Good evening, father,” greets D’Artagnan, with a slight giggle in his voice.

“Oh, do not call me ‘father’, it feels strange with you,” Aramis pleads, returning the giggle. Then, he gestures to the seat at the confessional. “I take it you have news to tell me?”

D’Artagnan sits down on the other side of the confessional, palms warming his knees. He’s shivering slightly -- he looked like the girls from earlier, giddy to tell Father Aramis whatever naughty things they did for the day just so they can be absolved by his smooth words.

“The king and I frolicked in the gardens today,” D’Artagnan starts, looking at his fingers so that he does not have to see the displeasure in Aramis’s eyes. “He is so beautiful, Aramis. He puts the sun to shame with his beauty.”

Aramis tries his hardest not to wince. “And?”

“I tried to persuade him into having his fencing lessons with me, but as you know the king _hates_ swords and sword fighting. So, to fend off his boredom, he took my hand and brought me to the gardens.” D’Artagnan waits for a reaction from his friend. He only gets a gesture to continue. “I laid down on the grass, my head on his lap, and then he puts flowers in my hair. Aramis, his lap feels like a pillow.”

“I see,” Aramis says, his stomach churning.

“And his eyes? They glimmer. No wonder they call him the Sun King,” D’Artagnan sighs deeply.

Aramis fiddles with his fingers. He wonders what he can say to prompt him. He wonders if he should be Father Aramis, or Aramis, D’Artagnan’s best friend, at the moment. “How did you… come to like him?”

D’Artagnan shuffles closer to the screen of the confessional booth. “Do you remember when I was called back to the palace, to be the king’s fencing instructor even when the musketeers have disbanded?”

“Yes… and you were baffled about it.”

“I was! But it turns out it was because the king had taken a liking to me. Of course, I would have wished it was because I was a good fencing instructor. So, instead of fencing, the king took me to an empty saloon, and we… danced.”

“...You never dance.”

“Exactly! He pulls you in, you see, with his eyes and his soft, lovely hands. His body just moves so naturally, like a graceful swan.”

“I don’t understand why I have to listen to this --”

“Are you not a hunter of love?”

“That was before I returned to priesthood, and I loved _women_ , mind you.”

D’Artagnan fills the room in silence, and Aramis feels bad for repeatedly rejecting him. It is simply that he does not know how to receive this information – he’s not used to it! He wants to cry from being so unwise, almost, especially since the words come so naturally to him when it’s with women, but if it’s _D’Artagnan_...

“I apologize that you have to listen to me gush,” D’Artagnan says in a low voice. “I can leave and find someone else to speak to about this.”

“No!” Aramis quickly interjects, without knowing why. “You may speak…”

“But it disturbs you, what I am telling you about.”

Aramis closes his eyes and swallows all of his pride. He will not throw away all that he knows about what is right or wrong in love, but at least he will try to listen to the love that his friend, his dearest friend, has. Man, or no. (Of course, he will always prefer listening to D’Artagnan gushing about a woman. But then again, as he recalls, he has never heard D’Artagnan gush about a woman...)

“I will listen, D’Artagnan,” he moves the partition slightly, so he can put a hand on his friend’s. D’Artagnan’s hands are warm against his cool ones.

His friend smiles, and then continues to speak loving words about the king. Aramis learns that sometimes the king sneaks off into the tavern to disguise himself as a peasant boy named Georges so he can drink and enjoy himself with the common people and sometimes that is where he and D’Artagnan meet in secret.

“We’ve kissed,” D’Artagnan notes.

“I did not need to know that.”

The thought physically pained Aramis, so he would rather not dwell on mental images if the king and D’Artagnan frolicking as lovers would. Soon, the word would spread around the court, that the king is having an affair with his fencing instructor, the musketeer. It would not to do well for his reputation, especially with the neighboring countries, and the Mazarin girls who  come to him to confess that they fancy the king will only double their wailing when they learn of this affair.

D’Artagnan ends his storytelling by saying that he will be back tomorrow. Aramis only nods, not wanting to lie to him by saying that he will be looking forward to it, but not rejecting him entirely either. As soon as Aramis pushes the partition away, D’Artagnan swoops him into his arms, making Aramis gasp.

“D-D’Artagnan?”

“Thank you,” D’Artagnan says softly into his ear, “for listening to me.”

Then, Aramis is engulfed in D’Artagnan’s arms for a long moment, not wanting to be away from it. He buries his face in D’Artagnan’s shoulder without thinking. He was about to raise his arms and hold him in return when D’Artagnan pulls away.

“I must go now,” he tells him, “but I will be back.”

“Alright,” Aramis says in return, staring at the floor close to D’Artagnan’s boots. “Goodbye for now.”

He turns before D’Artagnan goes for the door, just so he cannot see him leave. There’s a storm brewing in Aramis’s heart, and he cannot foresee what it is. Instead, he is left there alone in the quiet chapel, with only the melting candles to keep him company.

Another day passes, and another slew of confessions has gone. To his surprise, he spends the day waiting for D’Artagnan, breezing through the women only to wait for the man who will come to him at night to tell him stories about… his love. If he were in love with D’Artagnan, this would be tragic. But he is not in love with D’Artagnan…

Aramis prepares the seat in case of D’Artagnan’s arrival, patting the dust off. If D’Artagnan was extremely early the day before, today he was slightly late. Aramis waited in the quiet for a few moments for his friend to arrive. When the candles had already melted off halfway, that is when D’Artagnan arrives.

“You are late,” Aramis tells him.

“I know, I apologize.” D’Artagnan looks as if he had run full speed for a mile with how he was breathing. Chest heaving up and down, sweat on his forehead. D’Artagnan is in an all black attire this time, with a hint of green peeping from underneath.

Aramis makes D’Artagnan sit down, and gets a small clean cloth to pat the sweat clean from his forehead. D’Artagnan thanks him softly, replacing Aramis’s hand on the cloth with his. Aramis smiles, then takes his place back in the opposite side of the partition.

“What news have you?” Aramis asks, a little less afraid of the news now than he was yesterday.

D’Artagnan leans against the partition, and Aramis can see, even from the small spaces of the screen, that he was lovesick. What is it with the king that makes D’Artagnan melt so easily, Aramis thinks. Aramis has seen the king once or twice before, but only from afar and he could admit that the king is a beautiful man. Skin silky and soft, unmarred by flaws, and his hair flowing down his shoulders in small curls.

“We were nearly discovered by Bernardo,” D’Artagnan tells him, “the king snuck me inside an empty saloon to -” he watches Aramis’s reaction carefully, “...frolic… and then unfortunately for us, Bernardo was on patrol at the time.”

“What’s wrong with Bernardo knowing?”

“The king will be unharmed, of course, but I… I might be forced out of the palace.”

With that, Aramis jolts up. “And why is that?!”

“...Because the king hasn’t been attending to his duties since I was invited to be his instructor for a second time. Of course! I would always tell him to not forget who he is… he is a _king_ , and I am but a lowly commoner. He should not forget about his duties because of me …”

The priest folds his arms across his chest. “But why would they force you out…?”

“I theorize it is because they want Bernardo to be the king’s fencing instructor,” D’Artagnan shakes his head, “but Georges will not have it. Those Mazarins think they can keep Georges in a cage, well, they have it wrong.”   

Aramis tries not to flinch when he hears D’Artagnan call the king by his name. Not Louis, but the name that the king gave himself. D’Artagnan says it with so much affection as well, cradling it on his lips. He wishes someone would say his name so carefully and lovingly, the way D’Artagnan does. Who wouldn’t be in love with this man, after all. Any woman would willingly leap into his arms. Well, any woman and… the king.

“I’ve never seen you this way before, D’Artagnan,” Aramis says as he settles down back to his seat.

D’Artagnan chuckles, but it does not feel so sincere. “Some day, Georges and I will be able to love freely, as we are.” Then, he holds out what looks like a pendant shaped like a crow. “Georges gave this to me. A symbol of our love, he says.”

At that, Aramis feels his heart hitch up to his throat. He does not know if he wants to lurch on to the floor, or if he feels something else entirely. His heart swells. He has had plenty of lovers before - stolen lovers - that lasted only a night or so. Aramis would not allow himself to be attached. In fact, Aramis had never been _in love_ in his lifetime. He never believed in love. That is… until this man, sitting in front of him.

“...I see,” is all Aramis could reply.

“Do you think we have a chance, Aramis?”

“At what?”

“At happiness.”

Instantly, Aramis clutches at the cross on his chest. He kisses it, to ask for guidance. His heart seems to be brewing up a storm yet again, though he does want to show that on the outside. Inside, he does not even think he has the strength to stand up.

“That, my dear friend, I do not know,” he announces, his voice low.

D’Artagnan laughs again, softly. “One can only hope.”

Aramis nods at that. “I pray for your happiness, D’Artagnan.”

His friend stands and walks to the other side of the partition. He takes Aramis’s hands and lifts him up. Aramis anticipates another embrace, but instead, D’Artagnan just stands there, hands holding Aramis’s in front of him. D’Artagnan sighs.

“It must be difficult for you to listen to me over and over,” he starts, “I know that it is hard to stomach the words I tell you -- that I love a man… but I am glad and forever grateful that you listen to me, Aramis.”

“It _is_ difficult, yes,” Aramis admits, “but as the days go by it gets easier to listen to.”

And here comes the embrace that Aramis was waiting for. He eases into it, his face buried in D’Artagnan’s shoulder. This time he takes his chance and puts his arms around the man too. He only now notices how much taller D’Artagnan was compared to him - he was already standing on his toes! D’Artagnan thanks him again, speaking into Aramis’s hair. Aramis nods in return, smiling.

“Will you come back tomorrow?” Aramis asks when D’Artagnan finally lets him go.

D’Artagnan grins and his cheeks perk up. “Every day, if I can!”

The visitor leaves yet again, and Aramis is met with the same solitude that he has grown quite familiar with. The moment D’Artagnan is out of his eyesight, his knees go weak. He sits on the nearest pew as he tries to relocate the strength in his legs. What’s wrong with him? He asks himself. He is fine, and perfectly healthy. Slowly, he tries to stand, finding his balance. It is difficult to hold onto things in the darkness. Aramis only had a lamplight, and a few dying candles. He eventually finds his way back to his quarters, where he tries to breathe. He doesn’t know why he feels so weak… and big part of him does not _want_ to know as well. He fears that the truth may be worse than any kind of illness there is.

For the next week, he weakens every day D’Artagnan visits him. Perhaps what he said before about the confessions getting easier by the day was a lie. Every single word D’Artagnan says about his beloved pierces Aramis to the bone, but he cannot do anything about it. In fact, he does not have to do anything _but_ listen – which is both terribly easy, and painfully difficult.

That night, D’Artagnan talks of Georges, and their wishes to be together for all eternity. In Aramis’s head, this all seemed like foolishness. They _cannot_ be together for all eternity, since they are both from different social classes - eventually something will tear them apart, but Aramis did not have the heart to say that to him.

Whenever he looks at D’Artagnan, from the small spaces of the screen, it is clear as the sunny sky that he is in love. Perhaps this one is the purest love that Aramis has ever encountered in his life. Gone were the fantasies of fleeting lovers – D’Artagnan loves the king, with his entire mind and soul.

Aramis asks God that night if this was the heavy cross he had to bear.

The next night, D’Artagnan comes back, as promised. He is wearing his musketeer garb of all blue, complete with the hat. There is a rapier on his side, which makes Aramis slightly nostalgic. On his shoulder was… a satchel. Aramis can only hope these were offerings for the church, and not anything worrisome. D’Artagnan takes his usual seat at the confessional box, and he sits there in silence.

Aramis waits and waits, until he realizes that he has to fill the quiet in.

“What is bothering you tonight, dear friend?” Aramis asks, his voice calm and his legs crossed.

D’Artagnan drums his fingers on his knees, and then slams his fists on the kneecaps. He slips his hat off, breathing through his mouth.

“...D’Artagnan…?”

“They’ve forced me out,” D’Artagnan spits, his voice full of bitterness and anger.

“Calm down, D’Artagnan,” Aramis tells him, as if it’s any help, “tell me what happened.”

“The Queen Regent caught us in Georges’s chambers, when the king was  supposed to be learning his geography,” D’Artagnan says, his thumbs fiddling with each other.

He narrates that she flew into a rage. She started pointing at him, calling him a scoundrel for tempting the King into ignoring his duties in favor of pleasure. That perhaps she should have never let D’Artagnan become the royal fencing instructor in the first place, if it meant the King shirking his responsibilities entirely.

“I have been forbidden from seeing Georges.” D’Artagnan breaks into a weep and Aramis runs to him. He lets D’Artagnan sob into his chest as he holds his head and strokes his hair to comfort him.

“There, there,” Aramis soothes him, combing his brown locks with his fingers. “Did… did you get a chance to talk to the King before you left…?”

“Yes.”

D’Artagnan explains that the King fought with his mother as well, saying that he did not ask to be king. He did not ask nor want these duties. That all he wants is a normal life and to be with the man that he loves. The Queen Regent would not listen, her ears were blocked to all kinds of explanations. She cared for her son, and with all of Georges’s frivolity and frailty, she knows he cannot live a “normal” life.

The King had no choice but to let D’Artagnan go, and so D’Artagnan took his belongings from the palace and left. There is nothing left for him in the royal court, and surely the Royal Guard will catch him if ever he tries to disobey direct orders from the Queen Regent. He assumes that Bernardo took his place as the King’s fencing instructor, and that the court will be entirely taken over by the Mazarins.

“Will you go back to Gascony, then?” Aramis asks him, as he smooths out his friend’s hair.

“No…” D’Artagnan says, simply. The top of his head rests on Aramis’s chest.

“You can… stay here, and tend to the chapel with me. Surely, the women would be even more enticed to come and confess here when I have a handsome assistant,” Aramis tries to jest to lift his friends’ spirit up. D’Artagnan smiles, at least.

“Thank you, Aramis.”

He leads D’Artagnan to the spare quarters next to his – it needed a little bit of dusting and sweeping, but it had a bed at least. D’Artagnan sets his satchel down on the bed and looks around. His face is content.

“It’s perfect,” he tells him.

Aramis knows he is lying, since the room looks and feels like a jail cell, but he does not comment on it. Instead, he pats D’Artagnan on the back, to get his attention.

“If you ever need me, I will be in the next room, alright? Just knock.”

D’Artagnan thanks him again, before Aramis retreats to his own quarters.

As soon as he gets there, he plops onto the bed immediately, not wanting to think or to feel anything. He doesn’t take off his dirty cassock, but instead he clutches the sheets underneath him. He cannot make sense of what his emotions are – he feels lost. He cannot scream, because he and D’Artagnan are but a wall apart.

He does not know why he feels relief when the King and D’Artagnan were finally separated. Is it because there would be no painful stories left to listen to, or because… of his own… selfish reasons? He looks at his hands, and then he clasps the cross on his chest.

“I’m … in love with D’Artagnan,” he breathes.

There is terror in his heart at first, at the revelation, he’s afraid of the magnitude of his emotions. How long has he been harboring these feelings, even? Since the start, when D’Artagnan stepped into the musketeers’ headquarters and demanded that he duel them for a place on the team. His eagerness and his determination made Aramis attached to him, somewhat. D’Artagnan was like a puppy at first, always following him around. He was handsome then, too. Gentle, kind, and a talented swordsman. Maybe Aramis had always been in love, which is why it pained him so when D’Artagnan admitted to loving another person. Well, Aramis would not have hurt as much if it were a woman – but D’Artagnan fell in love with the _King_. A man, like the both of them.

Perhaps… perhaps if he was not so scared of love and commitment and the sin of loving a man, D’Artagnan would have been... his. Then again, he shakes the thought away. After all, D’Artagnan does not love _him_ , he is a flirtatious clergyman and ex-musketeer who runs away from love; he is not his beloved Sun King. For now, Aramis shall be the dear friend, the brother. His feelings shall be kept to himself. D’Artagnan needs a friend now, most of all.

Morning comes almost too quickly for Aramis, and now he has to face D’Artagnan, while pretending that he’s not utterly in love with him. He peeps out the window to check on the garden behind the chapel. It should be time for him to harvest the vegetables he has planted some time before, so he quickly dons his shoes and heads out of his door when he immediately encounters D’Artagnan as soon as he gets out.

“Hello,” D’Artagnan chirps, “good morning!”

“I…” Aramis tries to find his lost words. “Garden. I’m going to the garden…”

“To?” D’Artagnan blocks his way with his body.

“Get food…”

“I’ll help you. I need to do something to get my mind off of…”

“Of course,” Aramis says, without needing to hear the rest.

He takes a basket and brings D’Artagnan outside with him, to the garden. It isn’t the palace garden at all, without any grandeurs or beautiful rose bushes - it was a simple vegetable garden where Aramis would grow his vegetables. D’Artagnan follows him quietly, with curious eyes. Aramis concludes that since he is from Gascony, he is all too familiar with landscapes such as these.

Aramis thankfully finds that his tomatoes were ripe for the picking. He sets his basket down, uses his hands to harvest the fruit and place them inside his basket. D’Artagnan asks him what he can do to help, and Aramis gestures to the rest of the tomatoes across the garden.

“Did you have a farm in Gascony?” Aramis asks as he picks out two tomatoes and carefully puts them in the basket. He avoids D’Artagnan’s eyes as he speaks, so his knees won’t weaken again.

“I did,” D’Artagnan says, eliciting a smile, “it was a quaint little farm. We had pigs, and chickens. Do you have animals as well?”

“No. We are not allowed to use animals for food,” Aramis says, and then he smiles. “Well, as a priest, I cannot. But as a musketeer, one tends to be a little bit more free.”

This time, it is D’Artagnan’s turn to ask. “Do you miss being a musketeer?”

“I left the clergy to become a musketeer,” Aramis explains, “and then we are suddenly disbanded. Of course I miss being a musketeer. There was nothing else that brought me joy.”

Or maybe, that was before a bumbling but dashing man from Gascony came knocking down their door, demanding a duel and changing their lives for the better. (For Aramis, perhaps, the worse.)

“Georges said that he would bring the musketeers back together once the Mazarins have escaped to Italy,” D’Artagnan muses, “but perhaps that will never happen now.” His smile disappears, and so does the cheery atmosphere he had been trying to hold all morning.

Aramis pretends that his heart did not sink when he heard D’Artagnan say The King’s name. This time, it wasn’t his priestly, holy side condemning his friend for loving a man, but it was _him_ , his heart, that was seething with jealousy, but there was nothing he could do about it. He cannot take his own advice, after all, and leap into D’Artagnan’s arms, so his friend can change his mind about his little love.

“I am sorry this all happened to you, D’Artagnan,” Aramis tells him, crouching above the basket as he counts the tomatoes that they picked.

“I wouldn’t know what I would do without you, Aramis,” D’Artagnan says. “You are steadfast and loyal and kind and patient –”

“Hush, I do not deserve such praise.”

“But you do!” D’Artagnan helps him up, off the dirt. “You are a holy man.”

D’Artagnan holds him up by the shoulders, forcing Aramis to finally meet eyes with him. He struggles to speak.

“You have a bigger heart than I do.”

After all, he has the small, jealous heart of a rat, compared to D’Artagnan’s. As they head back to their quarters, tomato basket in hand, Aramis hears the scuffle of maidens coming towards the chapel. He tells D’Artagnan to hide, because nothing good will come out of it once the Mazarin maidens find out that he’s been harboring the ex-musketeer who was forced out of the palace. He makes D’Artagnan hide inside his quarters until the confessions are over and the women are all gone.

When the sun had set, dark storm clouds quickly surrounded the sky. Before it would rain, Aramis scurried to shut the doors and the windows, so that the rain will not be able to come inside the chapel. He hurries to his quarters, to check on D’Artagnan, right before the downpour started.

D’Artagnan is sitting on his bed, staring at the wall which is starting to leak down to the floor. There are droplets of rain coming from the ceiling as well, and fall to his bed. D’Artagnan chuckles softly, with no bitterness in his heart whatsoever, but instead, hopelessness.

“Come,” Aramis says, taking him by the hand, “you’ll sleep in my room. You're in dire need of companionship, anyway.”

The rain rattles through the roof, and then the thunder claps from above. The chapel isn’t the most sturdy place – it certainly is not the royal palace, but at least Aramis’s quarters do not leak from the rain. He makes D’Artagnan sit on his bed, and pats away the drops of water that fell on his friends’ head.

“This place is a wreck,” Aramis jests as he combs D’Artagnan’s hair back.

“I can sleep on the floor if you wish,” D’Artagnan suggests.

“No, there is…” Aramis estimates the bedspace, “...enough room for the both of us.”

“Don’t be silly, Aramis.”

The priest does not let his friend speak any further. He motions to D’Artagnan’s boots - they must be taken off before he puts his legs on the bed. So, D’Artagnan kicks them off. He tells D’Artagnan to move to the edge of the bed, next to the wall. Surely, they will fit, if their bodies are pressed close enough to each other. The breeze whooses inside the room through Aramis’s window, so he quickly latches onto D’Artagnan for heat. This was a wrong move, however, because now their faces are much too close to each other and he can feel D’Artagnan’s breath and his heart is about to leap out of its cage!

“Heh… we really _can_ fit in this, you’re right.” D’Artagnan grins, pulling Aramis close to him by the waist so he doesn’t fall to the floor.

Aramis tries his best to breathe like a normal person again. One of his legs slings over D’Artagnan’s hips, since there was only a small space for the both of them. Perhaps sleeping on the floor was a better option, but he cannot untangle himself from D’Artagnan’s arms. (He feels comfortable there.)

Outside, the wind starts to moan, the cool breeze turning into freezing gushes as the seconds tick by, but inside, all Aramis could think of is how hot D’Artagnan breath is on his neck. The other man sleeps peacefully, his lashes fluttering even if his eyes are closed. Aramis sweeps a stray strand of hair from D’Artagnan’s face. D’Artagnan’s arms are nice around him, and he wonders if this was what the King felt as well. Later, he refuses to let the jealousy brew all over him tonight, so he tries his best to sleep.

Is it strange to dream of D’Artagnan, even when D’Artagnan is sleeping just beside him?

The morning comes and thankfully, the storm has passed. Sunlight swam through the window and onto the floor. Aramis opens his eyes, painfully aware, this time, how close he and D’Artagnan were. His heart pounds a little too fast, and he wishes to retreat. That’s what he does, right? Retreat when he feels any sort of attachment coming from someone, and he guesses he will choose this path as well, to retreat from D’Artagnan.

Suddenly, his friends stirs, and instead of waking, he only shuffles closer to him in his sleep. Aramis feels like melting. The grounds outside are muddy, possibly, so perhaps there would be no confessions for the day. With that, he can spend a little bit more time with the sleeping D’Artagnan. He closes his eyes, not to sleep, but to wait for D’Artagnan to awaken. His hand bumps into something on D’Artagnan’s chest, it is cold and made of some shiny black material.

 _It is our symbol of love,_ he recalls D’Artagnan describing the pendant to him that day. Aramis doesn’t touch it, but he wants to rip it out. He wants D’Artagnan to forget about the King entirely, but if he ever becomes selfish, D’Artagnan might hate him for that. The moment Aramis’s fingers reach for the pendant to touch it, that’s when his friend’s eyes flutter open slightly.

“Good morning, Aramis,” he says, his voice groggy.

“Good morning, D’Artagnan,” Aramis replies, smiling at him.

“How long have you been awake?”

“Just a few minutes before you woke up.”

Aramis could feel D’Artagnan’s thumb rubbing his back. His stomach twists, like wringing a dishcloth of excess water. Has D’Artagnan always been this affectionate, to everyone? It is no surprise, then, that the king so quickly succumbed to his charms and his smile  (and his arms…) Reluctantly, he detangles himself from D’Artagnan, so that the man can stretch as well. D’Artagnan sits up, the pendant sitting nicely on his chest.

For a brief moment, the sunlight hits D’Artagnan’s face, and Aramis finds himself getting breathless again. He cannot be so obvious around his friend, so he excuses himself to the other quarters, to check on how ruined it was. D’Artagnan follows suit. The floor was damp from the leakage, so was the bed.. And his satchel. He runs to it, checking his belongings - his clothes were wet from the rain, and so was a piece of paper that was held into a roll by a ribbon. D’Artagnan curses.

“I have to go,” D’Artagnan says as he takes his satchel. “I do not want to impose myself into your chapel, Aramis. I already slept in your bed… I do not want to inconvenience you.”

“D’Artagnan,” Aramis stops him by blocking his way to the door, “you are not imposing yourself; you are not an inconvenience, either. You may stay here for as long as you wish.”

“...You are too kind, Aramis, but I have to go.”

“You may dry your clothes outside, and I do not mind us sharing a bed at all. What is it, D’Artagnan, that’s bothering you?”

He holds the roll of wet paper in his hand. “This is Georges’s letter to me. This was his final letter before I was forced out of the palace, and he told me to take good care of it. Now, I have soiled it.”

“It is not your fault --”

“It is! It is because I am a sinner, is it not?” D’Artagnan’s voice is desperate. “Because I loved a man, because I loved the king when I was never supposed to. Now, I’ve lost everything! When I could have just loved a woman, perhaps I would not go through all these hardships. And I would not involve you as well, Aramis.”

The priest simply keeps quiet, holding his arms to himself. It is normal that D’Artagnan is bursting out - perhaps it is only now that the gravity of his situation has pounded into his head. He looks at D’Artagnan, holding the soiled letter in one hand, and the pendant on the other. Perhaps it is not a punishment from God, but a sign.  

“Wait here,” says Aramis. “I’ll be putting on my musketeer uniform. Meet me in the garden, and bring your rapier.”

He strips off his cassock, and slips on his trousers - the familiar blue ones that D’Artagnan has, and the blue top as well. He adds his cape for drama, then his gloves, and to top the whole uniform off: his hat. He takes his twinkling rapier from the stand, and oh, how he has missed handling a sword. He dashes down to the gardens, where he expects D’Artagnan to be.

As soon as D’Artagnan sees him in his blue uniform, his face glows. Aramis knows, after all, that nothing makes D’Artagnan happier than a sword fight.

“I missed this,” says D’Artagnan.

“So have I.” Aramis takes out his sword. D’Artagnan follows suit. “I’m ready when you are.”

Their swords clash, metal against metal under the raging sun. D’Artagnan is strong, the best swordsman in all of France, and capable of defeating Aramis in only a few seconds, but the point of the spar was not to defeat anyone. No, Aramis wanted D’Artagnan to forget about the royal court and be happy. He wanted D’Artagnan to feel like himself again. D’Artagnan is a swordsman, and the most talented one. He does not deserve to be cooped up in palaces where they dress him up and make him forget who he is. This is the way of the sword, this is who D’Artagnan is.

They only stop when D’Artagnan slips on a puddle, thus toppling the both of them down, D’Artagnan on top of him. Now they were both dirty and needed a thorough bath later. Then, D’Artagnan giggled. Well, it started off that way, and then the giggle turned into a full-blown laugh. Unadulterated, unabashed. He was laughing as hard as he could, and Aramis could almost see the tears in his eyes.

“Welcome back, D’Artagnan,” Aramis tells him as he wipes a bead of sweat from his friend’s forehead.

“I’m glad to be back,” says D’Artagnan as he touches his forehead against Aramis’s.

They lay there like that for a few moments, and Aramis feels like he’s in heaven. Can this be called brotherly affection? He asks himself, but he does not care. So long as D’Artagnan is happy.

They clean themselves in the river nearby, to wash away the mud from their hair and their bodies. Aramis tries not to ogle (even if it is extremely difficult.) Of course, this is a thing that brothers do, and sometimes the musketeers will bathe together. This is not the first time Aramis has seen D’Artagnan in a state of undress. (But it is the first time he has ever _noticed_.)

The rest of the day is spent gardening, and cooking each other a nice dinner made out of the ripe tomatoes that they had picked out the day before. They eat in silence on the floor in Aramis’s quarters, since the other quarters are still damp from the storm. D’Artagnan sets his bowl down on the floor. Aramis rises to take the bowls out and wash them, when D’Artagnan stops him.

“Why are you helping me so much, Aramis?”

Aramis stops by the doorway, dumbfounded. “What do you mean “why?””

“I’ve been nothing but a bother to you and yet here you are, still helping me.”

 _Retreat, retreat, retreat!_ The voices in Aramis’s head are screaming. They tell him he should run away, like he always does. That he should just lie to avoid getting hurt, that he’s a coward. His feet shuffle towards the door, but he stops himself. No, he will not run away this time.

“Because I love you, D’Artagnan,” he announces, his voice soft and weak. “And not as a brother, not as a friend. I… I’m in love with you.”

“But… But I thought you only –”

“That’s what I thought as well! That my world revolved around women and pleasing them. I am a womanizer, yet the moment a woman tries to reciprocate my affections, I run away. I am a hunter of love that flees from the prey. I never thought anything of that. I just thought I was picky… but… when you stepped into the confessional to tell me that you were in love with the King… it… it pained me.”

D’Artagnan only stares at him, his mouth gaping.

“I thought it was because I am a priest, thus averse to such kinds of affection and love, but then I realized that it was not. It was because I was jealous of… of the King, and how much you loved him. But I don’t care if you don’t love me back, D’Artagnan. You don’t have to.”

Aramis waits for a reply, but D’Artagnan is still dumbstruck from all that his friend had told him. He remains still on the floor, trying to comprehend everything Aramis said. The smaller friend takes this opportunity to take the bowls out of the room, and possibly scream in the garden from all that he had just said. Now, surely, D’Artagnan will want to leave. But this time, if he wants to leave, Aramis will not stop him.

He returns to the quarters. D’Artagnan had relocated himself to the bed in absence. He was holding the pendant in one hand, and the king’s letter in another. Then, he sets them down on the bedstand. Finally, he looks at Aramis, with eyes that he cannot comprehend. Were they confusion? Relief? Aramis sits down beside D’Artagnan on the bed.

“Did you know,” D’Artagnan starts, “I was attracted to you as well. When I first stepped into Paris, I thought you were beautiful. Well, you _are_ beautiful, Aramis, everyone knows that–”

The priest holds a hand up. “Do not pity me, D’Artagnan. Like I said, you do not have to feel the same way. You do not have to force yourself to love me. I was merely admitting something that was buried in my heart for the longest time.”

D’Artagnan puts a hand on Aramis’s. Then, he bends down and kisses them. Both their hands were rough, but D’Artagnan’s lips on them felt pillowy. Suddenly, Aramis comes to himself.

“What are you doing!” He asks, face entirely red.

“You are not letting me talk, so I’ll just express my gratitude with actions.”

With that, Aramis giggles. He pushes D’Artagnan to his place in the bed, and lies his head on his friend’s chest. For Aramis, there was nothing to hide anymore. Aramis rests his forehead on D’Artagnan’s, and holds his face in his hands.

“You are beautiful, Aramis,” D’Artagnan whispers, the words slipping from his lips like silk, “so beautiful. So selfless and kind and loving.”

Aramis could not help but chuckle. “Ever the flirt, aren’t you, D’Artagnan? I might run away from you, if you get any bolder.”

With that, D’Artagnan pulls him closer by the waist, so their noses were touching as well. “I won’t let you!”

Aramis’s thumb brushes D’Artagnan’s lips, craving so much to kiss him, but he does not know if it is right. After all, he is sure that D’Artagnan still loves the King, and one cannot forget that kind of love so easily.

“What of the king, then,” Aramis asks, to address the elephant in the room.

“There is no way for me to see him again, and I am sure that he can have plenty of lovers apart from myself. He will encounter many D’Artagnan’s in the court but … I can only encounter one Aramis.”

“Is that so…”

“There is a reason why I always look to you when we were still musketeers. You are a spectacle, Aramis. You are charming and flamboyant, but beneath all that, you are serious and selfless.”

Aramis sniffles. “Hush...”

“And if perhaps I knew that I might have had a chance with you earlier on…”

“What would happen then?” Aramis spoke, his voice cracking.

“I would have been a doe-eyed lover boy, hoping that my unrequited beloved will look at me. Well, I _was_ that, until I realized that my unrequited beloved preferred only women, and that he would never look at me as a lover.”

“Well, it was your little confessions that made me realize that I was in love with you…”

D’Artagnan smiles. “I do not know if I should be thankful, or sorry.”

Suddenly, Aramis sobs. He buries his face in D’Artagnan’s neck, not wanting him to see how ugly he can get while crying. The worst part is, Aramis does not cry. He has never shown anyone his most vulnerable self, but he shows D’Artagnan. Perhaps this was all the pent up anger, and jealousy and sadness that Aramis had to let out. D’Artagnan wipes the tears from his face calmly with his thumbs.

“If you would permit me to stay for a bit longer…”

“Yes!”

Aramis doesn’t even think about the answer, all he knows is that he wants D’Artagnan to be with him – that eventually he wants D’Artagnan to kiss him, to teach _him_ pleasure and make love to him. D’Artagnan holds him closer, hushing him and placing kisses on his forehead.

He lets himself melt in D’Artagnan’s arms all night, knowing that the partition between himself and D’Artagnan had been torn down, to allow for something else to bloom.

 


End file.
